“Damn straight.”
Laughter cracked like firelight through the crowd as Kaze stumbled back from a wrestling match, his bare chest dusted with sweat and his grin wide. The warrior he’d squared off against—an auburn-haired bear of a man called Daithi—thumped him on the back so hard his knees nearly buckled. “Rematch,” Kaze declared, staggering toward the ring again. “But this time, I don’t slip in pig fat.”
“That’s your own sweat, boy,” Daithi boomed. “Try keeping your balance and maybe your pride’ll survive.”
“Careful,” Zero drawled from the sidelines where he sat cross-legged and betting with some of the warriors. “Kaze’s ego bruises easy. He’s delicate.”
“I’m gonna delicately bury you in the mud,” Kaze retorted, tossing a clay cup of something dark and potent into his mouth. “Right after I win this next one.”
“You’re gonna hurl your liver through your nose first,” Reaper called, dodging a flung apple and catching it mid-air with the ease of someone used to both chaos and food-based projectiles. “That mead’s stronger than jet fuel.”
Nearby, Ward leaned against the side of a crannóg with his arms crossed, watching the madness unfold with a faint, disbelieving smile.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen so many people—warriors, civilians, shifters, and SEALs alike—just existing and having a blast.
“Why do I feel like they’ve all reverted to frat boys from a military base party?” Ward muttered, and Viper’s arm snuck around his waist.
“Because they have.” His voice was amused and thick with pride. “But they’ve earned it.”
Music swelled nearby—pipes, drums, and a stringed instrument he didn’t recognize but had fallen in love with by the second bar. The rhythm was wild, raw, and untamed, just like the Fianna.
Trace and Juice sat beneath the long torches with a group of warriors swapping stories. One was carving intricate knots into a piece of antler while another braided tiny feathers into the ends of Juice’s dark hair. He didn’t even look like he minded.
“I think Juice may never leave,” Ward said softly, watching the way Trace leaned in, whispering something against his mate’s ear.
“They’ll probably spend a lot of time here,” Viper murmured. “Trace and his wolf side have missed the Fianna for so long, I can’t imagine him being able to resist the lure of being with them when time allows.”
“I agree.”
Another roar went up from the wrestling pit as Reaper slammed into Daithi like a freight train and the crowd cheered. Coins changed hands in the betting circle until Daithi retaliated, and the coins were handed back again.
Meat sizzled over open fires. Flatbreads were passed down long carved tables along with bowls of roasted roots and something spiced with herbs that made Ward moan low in the back of his throat. “This—” he said, waving his half-empty wooden plate, “—I don’t know what it is, but it’s incredible.”
“Venison,” a passing warrior informed him. “With gooseberries and honey. You want some more?”
“Do I look like I’m saying no?”
“You’re officially Fianna now, then.” The man winked and pointed him toward a fire. “Help yourself. My Grá Croí will be honored you do be liking her cooking.”
Ward leaned against Viper’s side and exhaled slowly. “This… this I’ll remember forever.”
Viper tightened his grip. “Yeah, me too.”
Kaze went flying again—backward this time—and slammed into a barrel with a grunt and a whoop as the warriors erupted in cheers. Reaper hauled him back to his feet by the arm, laughing hard enough that he nearly doubled over. Kaze brushed himself off with exaggerated dignity, then stuck his tongue out and stole a roasted turnip from a passing platter. “Think I’m done for the night,” he panted, flopping down beside Zero who offered him a drink without comment. “Maybe two nights. Maybe a week.”
“I give you an hour before you try again,” Zero said, eyes scanning the knife-throwing contest where two Fianna warriors were launching blades at an oak log with deadly precision. “The stupid always resets.”
Ward chuckled and let himself be pulled toward the next long table where the oldest of the Fianna sat surrounded by eageryoung warriors. The old men told stories with sweeping hands. Their words painted images of ancient battles, lost kings, and victories won on windswept cliffs.
“Listen to this,” Ward whispered as one of the elders raised a gnarled finger. “He’s speaking in old Irish. Not the reconstructed kind either—this is the real thing.”
“What’s he saying?” Viper asked, leaning in close, his arm still slung low around Ward’s back.
Ward listened, translating in low murmurs. “He’s talking about a hunt. Said he followed a white stag for seven days across the mountains. The gods tested him with wind and rain, and when he finally caught it, the beast looked him in the eye and spoke a vow: ‘Keep your oath, warrior, and the Emerald Isle will always know your name.’”
Viper whistled softly. “Damn.”
“They don’t fight for kings here,” Ward said. “They fight for oaths and for their honor. To us it’s myths and legends, but to these people, it’s their legacy.”
